


The Fallen Ones

by BurnItAllDownDahling



Series: A Family Repair [2]
Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Experimental Style, Hurt No Comfort, Kidfic, M/M, POV Second Person, Spardacest (Devil May Cry), Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-03 10:44:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21178127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BurnItAllDownDahling/pseuds/BurnItAllDownDahling
Summary: After he has fallen into Mundus' hands -- but before becoming Nelo Angelo -- Vergil finds reasons to fight back.





	The Fallen Ones

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Bound in Blood](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20047249) by [BurnItAllDownDahling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BurnItAllDownDahling/pseuds/BurnItAllDownDahling). 

> This is only tangentially related to the "A Family Affair"-verse, although it's still very much about family. Consider it an AU sequel to "Bound in Blood," except this time Vergil learns of Nero's existence while Nero is still a child. Continuity-wise, this takes place in the time between DMC3 and DMC1. Mind the tag warnings, please; this one's darker than usual.

It hurts, doesn't it? So tight, the leash. It burns your veins, cracks your skin, digs inch by inch into each and every one of your bones. Even the follicles of that fine, sleek white hair, of which you've always been so proud, throb like tiny hearts within your scalp.

And you press on despite it. Such fire in you. One thing drives you forward, makes you hunt when moving feels like dying, makes you go to ground when all you really want to do is lie down and despair. You would have given in by now if not for that one thing, but because of it you've made a burrow in a dying forest. The forest is dying because humans have been killing it. Ancient, beautiful trees, many of them old enough to have witnessed the last great demon-human war, have been clear-cut. They have laws against this, the more civilized of these creatures, but laws are only as good as those who enforce them, and humans are so very good at corruption. A defiled forest is excellent territory for a weak demon, however. As the wildlife weakens and dies out, it becomes easy to hunt, and when animals become hard to find, the humans themselves make fine prey. Demons gain power from human blood, after all, and criminals do not report losses to anyone but other criminals. There will be good, reliable sustenance here for years after you're gone.

It was always inevitable that this time would come. Your left foot has already become the armor that will soon be your prison; your left shoulder has gone stiff, nearly useless in a fight. You're still blindingly fast, still armed if only with the broken remnant of Yamato, still dangerous, if only to weak low demons. But the child can handle weak low demons on his own, which makes you little more than a liability. Almost time to go.

You are exhausted, and even the pain can no longer keep you awake, so when the intruder comes, you've slumped against the back wall of the cavern, huddling in your rags and stumbling through fitful dreams. Then the child hisses in soft warning and you're up, drawing your sword even before you're fully awake. His instincts are better than yours these days. If he is afraid, there's a threat.

Hard to see. The leash has dug deep into your right eye, and you let it stay closed because it no longer belongs wholly to you. The left still functions, but blearily. You're so tired. A humanoid figure stands before you and you gather what strength you can, orienting, to strike --

_"Vergil?"_

You remember this voice. From a thousand years ago, or perhaps only three.

You lift your head, painfully, and squint through your one good eye. A face resolves out of the dimness, _familiar_. That brow, those lips, so like your own. Once, you were so beautiful.

(_Two_ of you. There are _two_ of you.)

Everything left in you that understands the workings of demonkind instantly tenses as you mark him as enemy, _rival_. Rivals kill offspring whenever possible. You blur back and duck and the child scrambles into the curve of your arm as you've taught him to do, and then you stagger because your left foot is literally made of lead. The rival stands between you and the cavern entrance. Nothing to do but position yourself and your sword between your child and the threat.

The impossible person, your brother, _Dante_, does not move. "What the hell?" he says, instead. He sounds dazed. "My God. I saw you fall. The rumors said there was some kind of demon here, but... I thought you were _dead_."

You are, in every way that matters. "Kill me or leave us," you declare in a cracked, hoarse growl. What a pathetic warn-off. Once, you were so dangerous.

"Vergil -- " A step closer.

You slash at him. You have just enough demonic power that a vacuum forms and slices the air in a line from you to the far wall. Dante merely steps aside to avoid it. He's used to dodging dozens of slices from you at once. He doesn't come at you, though, possibly because he's expecting another attack. Foolish little brother. You don't have the strength for another attack.

"Okay," he says, after a moment. "Okay." He steps back, hands up now. "I won't come any closer. Just... God, Verg. And... is that a _kid_? How the -- What's happened to you?"

"Nothing that should matter to you. _Leave_, Dante." Since it seems he does not mean to kill you. How shameful, that you aren't even challenge enough for that.

Silent hesitation. You despise his endless waffling. "Verg. Shit. You can barely stand, and the Yamato... I don't want to fight you."

You know you're nearly helpless and that your fucking sword is broken. He wastes pain stating the obvious. "Then _leave_."

"Just let me... Please. Shit... okay." He moves, and it seems impossible, but after a moment it's undeniable: he has knelt on the floor. Put Rebellion on the ground in front of him. "Okay. I want to _help_ you, for God's sake. Let me help you. What do you need?"

His display of submission has helped your mind inch back from desperate aggression, but now pride asserts itself. "I need nothing from you."

"What about the boy? Kids always need shit, come on. Can I bring _him_ anything?"

And here you waver. Because... you were too stiff, too noisy, and your hunting went poorly this evening. The child hasn't complained, and it shames you to ask, but he needs nourishment, not your pointless pride.

After a long moment in which you calculate the chances of betrayal -- low, because Dante doesn't have a deceptive bone in his body -- and defeat if you choose to attack -- high, because of the leash -- you finally lower your sword.

"Food," you say.

Dante's on his feet in a blink. "Food for the kid. Check. Any requests?"

You glare at him. As soon as he brings it, you will leave. This location has been compromised.

He waves and grabs his sword and backs out, and you feel the fold of his power as he changes shape to fly off. (How you envy him. It's been so long since you wore your truer shape.) You need to start gathering your meager belongings so that you can retreat to the other, lesser cavern in this territory. How Dante found you, you can't guess, but once you've driven him off, if you mask your presence while you move...

So tired. Everything hurts, but worse than that is the constancy of the pain. You're _tired_ of hurting. So banal, eternal torment, but also exhausting. You let the boy down, then lean back against the cavern wall. You just need to catch your breath for a moment.

#

Waking is like floating toward the surface of a pool. You don't come up all the way, just to a depth at which you can make out voices. Familiar ones. Dante: "See? He's better, just like I said. Want another slice?"

Very soft, from your child: "Mm-hmh."

Scents of bread and animal meat and vegetables and... pizza. You've forgotten pizza.

You've forgotten to teach your son not to accept gifts from strangers.

You've forgotten that your brother is not much of a monster, and is unlikely to devour your son in order to symbolically destroy your dynasty before it can begin, as a proper demon rival would. Especially given that he's technically part of that same dynasty.

And you know what real monsters are like, now, don't you?

The darkness is deep, and for the moment safe. You sink into it again, and know no more.

#

Abruptly you awaken, shocked by the awareness that you have slept for many hours.

You reach at once for Yamato which sits beside the bed, and you're on your feet with the sword drawn before you finally register that nothing hurts. Well, not quite. The pain remains -- it will always remain -- but it is a whisper now, after an eternity of screaming. Impossible. The leash does not relent. And yet, suddenly you can see from your right eye, and the vision is, for now, only your own.

Unfamiliar bedroom and bed. Familiar scent and aura, however. Dante's lair, somewhere in the city. Familiar figure slouched across a big plush chair in the corner, snoring.

Familiar small movement in the bed, from where he's been curled against you while you slept. The child looks up at you with big silver eyes. You hold up a hand and he goes still. There's an entire vocabulary of silence between you, built of necessity. That gesture meant _Hold while I evaluate the threat_. He is crouched and ready. His armored, clawed right arm glows brightly, warning of a powerful demon's presence, but that's only Dante. You don't register anymore.

Your brother sleeps so deeply. You could kill him in his sleep. You _should_, for the child's sake. Honor means less, now that you must put another's needs first.

Instead, you prowl the room, restlessly. Empty pizza boxes on the dresser. Empty glass on the nightstand, smeared on the inside with a dark red residue. You pick it up and sniff, but you've already guessed what it is. Blood, of a particular and peculiar variety that only one other person on this planet shares. Not even the child has such blood. And yes, that is the aftertaste of salt and metal and power in your mouth. So the leash has been appeased, for now, by this offering of your brother's blood.

The door and windows of the room are warded. Useless; an enemy will simply come through the walls or floor. Ah, but when you extend your refreshed senses, you detect warding in the foundation of the building, too. Better. On the corners of the city block. Hmm. On landmarks of the neighborhood. At the borders of the city -- Well, well. Not as incompetent as he pretends to be, your brother, and more paranoid than he admits. The wards help a great deal, but it's still dangerous; your pursuers won't stop searching. For a brief time, however, you can stop and lick your wounds.

"It's safe," Dante says. You turn, too quickly, but he does not attack you for the appearance of weakness. Instead he only stretches a little, then shifts in his chair to face you. The boy immediately hops out of bed and runs over to hide behind your leg. You put your free hand on his back so that you can grab him and run if you need to, and then you draw your sword again.

Dante ignores this, his gaze momentarily shifting to the boy before rising to meet your own again. "Anyone -- or anything -- tracking you is going to lose you somewhere in the suburbs," he says. "They'll still pick you up if they get close enough, but we'll know they're coming long before that point. No surprises."

"That's how they've never found you."

"Well, that and the fact that I kill any trackers who get close, before they can report back." Dante sits up and stretches again, more extravagantly. He's wearing an actual shirt this time, just a simple long-sleeved thing, but it's made of silk or something else that breathes well for battle. It clings. His hair is shorter than last time you saw him. How beautiful he still is. "Helps that they never really look specifically _for me_, though. They just know there's a high-order demon somewhere in this town who keeps messing up their plans to round up human prey."

The demons have never looked specifically for Dante because your mother warned him to change his identity as a child. You knew no better, and gave yourself away. It's one of the many reasons you hate him. Still. Mother raised you right, before the end. "Thank you for the food," you say, nodding toward the boy. "And..." You glance at the bloodstained glass.

Dante shrugs. "The blood was the kid's idea, actually." Your son makes a quick noise of protest. Dante grins at him. "Okay, not in so many words. I just mean, I asked him what he had for dinner last night, and he said, 'Juice.' And since I didn't see a pile of fruit or a juicer in your cave..." His smile fades just a little. "It reminded me that we can subsist on blood, same as a demon, so maybe I could give that thing on your chest something else to chew on for a while."

He knows, then. You set your jaw. "I am prepared to answer any challenge now, Brother."

Dante simply looks at you, elbows resting on his knees, expression bleak. "You _would_ assume that the only reason I'd help you is so we can fight again. For fuck's sake, Verg. When are you gonna make sense?"

He has never made sense to you. The last time you met, you tried to kill each other; there's no reason for him not to try again now. But though you do not move from your defensive stance, he gets up and goes over to a door on the far side of the room. You pivot to face him. "Here," he says, pushing open the door. The smell of bathwater makes your nose tingle. "I ran it a while ago, but it ought to still be pretty warm. You stink, Vergil. The kid stinks. I've got some stuff that'll fit you, of course, but the kid..." He thinks a moment, then shrugs. "I'll give you a t-shirt, 'til his clothes come out of the dryer. Cool?"

You glare. He rolls his eyes and walks out of the room, which so effectively short-circuits your threat display that you just stand there for a moment, unsure of what to do next.

The boy, as usual, provides you with the focus that you need. "I have to use the bathroom," he says, tugging on your pant leg. His voice is very soft, of necessity.

So you put your sword away, and show him to the toilet.

While you scrub him free of months of grime in the bathroom's tiny wash area -- it's a hybrid bathroom, Japanese-style but with the toilet in the same space -- you sense him assessing you, and the situation. "Are we going to live here now?"

"No. Lift your arm."

He obeys, turning to facilitate the washing. "Is he bad? Will we eat him?" You've done this to other pursuers who got too close.

"He's... not for eating. Not right now, anyway." You leave unanswered the question of whether Dante is "bad," by which the boy always means, "someone not to be trusted."

The boy considers your answer. He always notices your silences. Such a clever boy. And such a tender morsel, so easy to devour, half the age that you were when your own nightmares began. His fragility frightens you as so few other things do.

"I like pizza," he whispers suddenly, bowing his head in shame.

You don't really think anything of this. "Close your eyes," you say, and pour a pitcher of warm water over his head. He shakes too-long hair from his eyes, and you cup his face, examining him for hunger, pain, weariness, any needs that you can fulfill.

His eyes search and search your face, anxiously. "I like pizza better than juice."

He seems to expect an answer. "Very well."

He bites his bottom lip. "You don't have enough juice left to give it to me, so I'll just eat pizza from now on. Show me how to hunt pizza. Okay?"

Your son. _Pities_ you. It's unbearable. And worst of all, what he says is true.

"Get in the tub," you tell him, and turn away so he won't see your face while you try, uselessly, to scrub yourself clean.

The clothes that await you are tasteless but tolerable: a simple black shirt much like the one Dante's wearing, and jeans. The boy looks ridiculous in an oversized t-shirt, but he smiles shyly when Dante points out the design on the front of it: a cartoonish anthropomorphized slice of pizza, advertising a local chain restaurant.

You observe Dante with caution this time, keeping your hand on the hilt of Yamato but not drawing it. He's in the sparse kitchen of Devil May Cry, and this time he's changed things up: there are bowls on the table, and he's humming at the stove, making -- it takes you a moment to remember the word -- oatmeal. There's a grocery bag nearby, which seems to contain children's snacks and orange juice and other things you know he doesn't normally eat. For the boy.

"Hey, sit down, breakfast is almost ready," he says cheerfully, hearing you but not turning around. "I'm not much of a cook, but this shit's pretty easy to make and good for kids, right? I put milk in it."

"If it's food, he can eat it."

He glances back at you over his shoulder with a look of reproof. "Well, yeah, I know he _can_, but I'm the uncle, Verg, I get to spoil him. I want to give him stuff he _likes_." It's nonsense. He spies the kid and grins before turning back. The boy, sitting at the table, kicks his feet a little in pleasure, before you eye him still.

Dante puts bowls of steaming oatmeal on the table -- three of them. You don't move from the entrance of the kitchen, so he looks pointedly at you, then at the bowl of food he's prepared. "I have no further need of human food," you explain.

"Yeah, me, either, but I still eat it when it's there. To be polite, like Father taught us."

You wince, for once stung by something other than the leash. But that's the problem. "My body will reject it, now."

He watches you for a long moment. Now will come the questions. His eyes flick down to your chest, and by that you know he's seen the lumpish, spiderwebbing mass of gray-green demonflesh embedded there. He saw what it did to you -- what it's still doing to you now, despite the infusion of his blood. You saw the dark blue veins inching their way up your throat again, in the mirror. (The pain is coming back, too, but it's just an incessant yell so far.) If he thinks a bit more, he will know who put the leash on you and what that means, but you know that Dante is not much given to internal thought where external verbalization will do.

To your surprise, however, he says, "What's the kid's name? He wouldn't tell me."

You have to think to remember. For so long, he has just been _your son_. "Nero."

He smiles at the boy. "That's a great name. I like it." The boy bites his bottom lip and fumbles at the spoon, probably to avoid talking to his uncle. Once, he was raised by humans; he knows how to use utensils, but it's been a while. "Here," Dante says, leaning over to help him. "I dunno if you'll like this, but I put a lot of sugar in it, so that ought to make up for my shitty cooking."

You watch them and envision yourself as Dante. Leaning over without pain, and with the easy confidence that comes of owning one's own flesh. Giving your child good food, not carrion, not raw meat crusted with dirt. Talking to Nero in something other than terse commands.

Dante doesn't glance up, nodding in approval as the boy manages to get a spoonful of oatmeal into his mouth without mishap, but he says, "Come and sit down, at least. You're looking tired again."

It is infuriating that he will not try to kill you.

You sit down.

Breakfast is a quiet affair, after that. The boy has never spoken much. You look at the bowl of oatmeal and want it, if for no other reason than that you're not permitted to have it. You think of what was forced into your mouth the last time you allowed yourself to be hungry, and then you think about other things.

It's quiet and calming, in Dante's kitchen. You close your eyes for just a moment.

When you open them, the boy is gone and only Dante sits there, with a cup of coffee in front of him and his chin propped on his fist. Watching you. You sit up at once, immediately questing for the boy's demonic presence. He's still in the building --

"Relax," Dante says. "He's just exploring. The house isn't exactly childproof, I admit, but given that arm of his, I kinda don't think cheapshit demon taxidermy is gonna be much of a threat."

You stand down from alarm. There's a cup of tea in front of you -- an oolong variety you've always liked. You can't drink that, either, but the scent is pleasing, and familiar. Why? It takes a moment, and then you remember. The last time you came here to take your pleasure of Dante, because he was young and pretty and carefree and at that point, not strong enough to defeat you. For a year you forced yourself on him, hurt him, tried to make him fear and defer to you. It never worked. He just enjoyed it and laughed at you. Then one morning after, he made you breakfast -- everything you liked including this tea -- and he leaned his chin on his fist the same way and smiled at you the whole time that you ate. You knew it was time to end the affair because you didn't want to hurt him anymore, and because the Temen-ni-gru was almost ready.

Soft-headed, beautiful fool. He should have just let you break his heart.

"Mundus took me nearly the moment that I fell into hell," you say.

He's not smiling this time. In his gaze is... not pity. You will not tolerate pity from him. Instead his face shows only a kind of heavy, horrible acceptance. This is the part he's been able to guess. You don't need to say it. You say it anyway, because right now feels like that time years ago, when you made yourself hurt him in order to try and distance yourself. You always fall into the same patterns with him, don't you? Predictable, both of you. Weak and foolish as humans.

"I fought," you say, "but I was weak from fighting Arkham and you. He laid claim, and then did all the things to me that he wished he could have done to Sparda. I have pleased him greatly by surviving."

You should tell him all of it. Tell him that you know how it feels to have your limbs torn off. Tell him that the blood of a god tastes like molten metal, burning you from the inside out. Tell him that three eyes looming over your face and drinking in your anguish as you are made useful, haunt your nightmares. Tell him that you enjoyed more of it than you ever believed you could, and the shame of that hurts as much as the physical pain.

He's silent. You are a coward, and do not say more on that.

"The demons found the boy, somehow. I didn't even know he existed. But they brought me before the throne to show me that some of the low demons were playing with him. For the entertainment of the court."

Despairing silver eyes meeting yours, and widening in something like recognition. It stirred something in you, too, for the first time in months. Perhaps the memory of your own childhood despair? Doesn't matter. _Fight_, you thought, willed, needed -- and as if hearing this thought, the boy had pressed his little lips together and shut his eyes and shouted and struck blindly at the demon leering at him. His arm, small and human before that, suddenly blazed blue and streaked across the throne room floor and gutted the creature, then re-formed as a miniature version of your own demonshape arm. Silence from the spectators, then, as the child tore his tormentors apart and then turned to you, shaking and drenched in demon blood.

You smile in remembrance. Your magnificent boy. "I could not permit Mundus to keep him. I broke free of my bonds that night. Took my son, killed our guards, and fled. We've been on the run since then."

"God. He can't be more than... what, six? Shit, I don't know kids."

"He's four."

"Where's his mother? Did the demons...?"

You shake your head, neither knowing nor caring. You dallied with many humans, back when you were arrogant enough to think pleasure had no consequences. There might even be other children out there for Mundus to collect and twist. Doesn't matter. This is the one you know of, so he's the one you've taken responsibility for.

Dante's gaze flicks down to your chest again. "You'll never escape them with that thing on you."

"I know."

"Then..."

"I'm teaching Nero how to hunt. How to hide and protect himself. He learns quickly. A few more months and then I'll leave him, to lead our pursuers away from his trail. Then he'll survive no matter what happens to me."

Now there's horror in Dante's face. "Verg. That was _your_ childhood. You can't want that for him."

You sigh. Stating the obvious again. "It's either that, or Mundus."

He twitches with the very thought. Then sets his jaw. "Let me help you."

The urge to refuse is instant... and you bite it back. Your pride isn't the most important thing, here. After a long moment, you make yourself say, "He needs a sword."

You see a muscle flex in his jaw. "Maybe I can help you repair the Y -- "

"It isn't repairable. Only I can re-forge it, and I haven't the strength. I will never have the strength." You touch the leash embedded in your chest.

"What if I give you more blood?"

"You could give me everything in your body and it wouldn't be enough. It cannot be the Yamato, Brother."

His nostrils flare. "I want to help you _fight_ that fucker, Verg. Between the two of us -- "

It's exactly what you expected, and you find yourself smiling at him. It actually hurts your face. You can't remember the last time you smiled, can you? He falters silent on the thrust of that smile. You've gutted him with it. This is why you could never truly make him yours: because for all your airs, you aren't naturally cruel. You are no true monster. But now you know what it is to serve one.

He stares, when you don't take his offer of alliance. You can't bear his silent shock. You get up, take your cup of tea to the sink, pour it out, and wash it. When you leave the kitchen, he's still sitting there, staring at the chair where you sat.

The child is in something like a library, which surprises you. When did Dante reclaim the tomes from your father's collection? Nero is on top of one of the stacks, out of immediate view, when you come in. Good child, minding sight-lines and marking exit and defense points. You leap up on top of the stack with him, crouching to see what he's up to. He has a big book open. You doubt he can read it; it's written in demon script. It has interesting pictures, however. An illuminated history of the demon-human war.

You're tired again, and moving hurts. He pushes the book where you can see it, and when you slump onto your side, he immediately curls up against your belly. He pats a picture in the book. "Grandpa Sparda?"

You look. The placement of the horns... ah, and a stylized depiction of his foot on Mundus' head. "Yes."

The boy digests this. "Are we going back to the forest?"

"Yes."

A little sigh. "I like it here. Even if I have to take baths."

"There's nothing to hunt. Nowhere good to hide if the demons come. We've discussed this before. You cannot rely on others. If those who protect you should fail, only your own strength will save you."

He bites his lip and lays his head down on his folded arms. You see wetness in his eyes. Of course he wants to be loved and protected; he's a child. A child of Sparda cannot presume such privilege, however. If you were stronger --

The leash jerks in this moment to remind you of your weakness, surging through your blood and lacing its way down your veins. One of your ribs cracks, then heals, as hair-thin tendrils dig into the bone. 

You manage not to flinch, but as the spasm passes (though the incessant shouting has grown louder and closer, and you can no longer feel your left foot), you exhale and open your eyes... to see the boy's human hand in front of your face, with a red bleeding line sliced across the palm. He's clawed himself open. He holds this hand up, offering to feed you his blood.

You frown and put a hand around his, closing it. He sets his little mouth -- the child has a Dante-ishly stubborn streak -- and pulls free and offers the hand again. It won't work. The mix of demon and human genes is key, but his blood doesn't have enough demonic power yet to interest the leash. You've explained this to him, but he's seen Dante's blood work, and now he thinks that he can help you if he just tries hard enough.

You push his hand away and wrap your arms around him and hold him close instead, breathing deep of his clean, healthy scent. He sniffs a little and rubs at his face, trying for strange humanish reasons to hide that he's crying, and of course eventually he falls asleep.

After putting the book away and gathering him to your shoulder, you go looking for somewhere to put the child down for a nap. You could have left him on the bookcase. He was safe enough there. But this place is seductive, isn't it? You cannot blame him for liking soft beds and warm blankets and good food. It's what you wish you could give him yourself. You'll have to leave soon, or become too soft to do everything that must be done. Tonight.

Until nightfall, though, you find the room where you slept before, and put him under the covers there, so that your scent can help him feel safer. He smiles and murmurs babyish nonsense as you tuck him in. You stroke his round cheek with a finger and think, _If only I were stronger_.

You aren't, though.

There are no thoughts in your head as you descend the steps to Dante's foyer/office. He's near the couch, by one of the weapon stands, and... he has a sword in his hands. Force Edge. Hanging from its hilt, attached to what must be a new chain since the old one broke at Temen-ni-gru, is Dante's half of the amulet.

You stop. "That demon arm gives him good reach," Dante says, very softly. "I was thinking that once he grows up a bit... he looks so much like you when you were little. Probably going to have your crazy long arms, right? Think he'll be able to hold onto the amulet, or is he going to lose it if I give it to him now?" 

The amulet, too. He nearly killed you for that sword, and that amulet, three years and a life ago. You stare at him, disbelieving, for so long that he grimaces. "Look, you said he needed a sword."

You make yourself speak. "The arm will absorb both. It consumes objects of power and stores them until he needs them."

"Oh. That's handy, I guess. Heh. 'Handy.' Anyway. I know a katana works differently, but you can walk him through the basics -- "

"Dante."

" -- and hell, if he's like us, he might not even need sword lessons. Then when he's old enough, if he can somehow get the other amulet from ol' Mundus, all three of us can -- "

"_Dante_." He goes silent, resentfully. You see the tension in his shoulders. With a breath of pain, you sit down on the couch and summon Yamato, just to have something to rest your hands on. The sword is dead, its fragment of Sparda's soul snuffed out, but at least the scabbard is still intact. "We both know I'll never be able to fight him. That's the entire purpose of a leash, after all."

He whips around to face you. "Leashes slip, for fuck's sake!"

Such fire in him. A furnace, compared to the spluttering campfire that is all you have left. You're so damned tired, in more ways than one. With a heavy sigh, you shift to lie down on the couch, holding Yamato to your breast in funereal solemnity.

"He's eating my soul," you admit at last. "The leash devours everything else too -- my blood, replaced with demonic ichor to make me more controllable. My life energy, and any ability to replenish it. My strength, unless I submit to him. If I do, I'll become more powerful, and immortal, because that will make me a more useful servant; if I don't it just weakens me. But the soul... he means to have all of that, Dante, whether I submit or not. And frankly, I don't have much left. It's a liability for you to have me here. At any given moment, I might break. Then I'll attack you whether I want to or not."

Dante is breathing hard, standing over you with Force Edge in his hands. Will he plunge it into you, and curse you for your weakness? No. He should, and you would welcome the release; the leash also prevents suicide. But he won't. Dante has always been selfish.

"You won't break," he snarls. "You've always been selfish as hell, Verg." You blink. "That's why you took the kid, right? He's yours, and you won't let him die or be made a slave. Even if it kills you."

You vanish Yamato and lay a hand on your chest. Through the shirt, the leash squirms at the touch, sending rivulets of pain through your lymph nodes. "Only Mundus' death can remove this, Brother, and the removal alone might kill me. For all intents and purposes, I've been dead since he implanted my flesh with his own."

His face is writ with anguish and horror and fury. He isn't stupid, though he tries to be. He knows you aren't lying. Why is he so upset, then? You're enemies. Why does it matter if you die? He did this at Temen-ni-gru, too, though. You remember: as you tumbled backward off the cliff into your self-inflicted hell, this look was on his face. He reached after you, might have caught you, would have pulled you back if he had managed it -- or he might have fallen with you, dragged down by your weight and momentum. You cut his hand for the same reason you pushed away Nero's; no one else can save you from your own folly. When someone is doomed, best just to leave them to their fate.

Dante sets Force Edge against the wall and sits down beside you on the couch. He reaches for your chest, then hesitates. Touches your chin instead, where tendrils of the leash have begun to appear on the surface of your skin like greasy green ropes, stretching toward your eye. One of the tendrils stirs at his touch -- his flesh is so like your own that the leash wants both -- and he flinches away from it, lip curling in disgust.

Then he looks up, and you stare, because all of that hate is in his eyes... but none of it is for you. 

Abruptly he leans down, planting his hands on either side of you. His mouth finds yours. You just lie there. The leash has eaten your desire, too, except whenever your master is kind enough to permit it to exist within you. You don't resist, however, as his tongue forces your lips apart and --

And a mouthful of his blood, thick and rich with that bittersweet, impossibly perfect balance of demon and human, coats your tongue. You swallow before you can think not to.

This time, because you're awake to feel it, the power of your brother strikes like a flood, sluicing through every particle of your flesh. You gasp and buck in spite of yourself as it sears right back at the searing pain in your veins, fights it to a standstill, and then pushes it aside. The tendrils withdraw all across your skin, retracting into the mass on your chest. Your foot tingles as sensation returns. By the time Dante lifts his head, licking his demon-sharp teeth and then letting them return to humanshape, you feel almost normal. Almost like your old self.

Something stirs in you. He was yours, once. No longer; he's defeated you in battle, though you fell rather than let him claim you. For your arrogance and cowardice you have become the property of someone far worse, but there is a part of you that enjoyed that quick taste of his mouth, beyond just the blood. That misses the taste of his skin. You don't reach for him, however. You are unworthy now, a low and contaminated thing. If only you were stronger.

But he has always been stronger than you, whether he knew it or not -- and this time, he knows it. When he moves to straddle you, you let him undress you, even though you don't want him to look at the ugly, pulsing thing on your chest. You're grateful when he doesn't, instead caressing around it, kissing above and below it, grazing you with his nails so that, for once, you don't even notice the pain it's trying to give you. When he pushes your thighs apart, you flinch, remembering other, colder hands -- but Dante inflicts no horrors on you. His mouth on your cock is a slow, sweet thing, suckling with almost meditative tenderness, until you begin to shake and bite your tongue to stifle a moan. (Your own blood flavors your mouth, abundant for the moment. You could feed your son for a month with what you're wasting now. You swallow and then Dante kisses you again and you bite him and it's so thick, so good. His strength tastes like wine.) You think he'll penetrate you, he is owed that and you crave it, but Dante has never made sense. When he is naked above you, perfect and whole and untouched by evil except in glancing blows, he lifts himself up and spears himself on your cock, roughly enough to cause himself pain. Has he been missing the things you once did to him? You thought you were being so cruel. But God, oh God who has abandoned you both, you've forgotten that love makes all the difference at times like this, and _he loves you_. He has always loved you, even though you've hurt him and rejected him and foolishly fled from his love.

This time, however, you suck up his love the way Nero's arm sucks power. You selfish, unworthy, nothing thing. You are a black hole beneath him, taking and giving nothing back even as you grasp his hips and fuck up into him. Once you thought his love a weakness, but that was when you didn't know what true weakness was. Now you're greedy for the love he pours into you. There can never be enough, and it seems inevitable that he'll run out, but somehow there is always more. He rides you harder, faster, his head tossed back, low animal cries wrenched from his throat as if you're hurting him again. You slide hands up his torso, loving his strength, teasing his nipples, and finally settling them over his heart. It beats so hard beneath your fingers as he moans into an orgasm, it beats hard and _free_, and for one fleeting, endless moment, you dare to imagine that you might someday be free again, too.

When you are, you promise yourself, you will love him back with every ounce of soul you have left.

But then, of course, the leash ignites on your chest. Molten hate pours through you, off you, making Dante cry out and scramble back, panting and horrified, as you begin to scream. Green tendrils lash at you inside and out, cracking your skin again, bursting through your right eye, hardening your skin and darkening it into something very like metal. Outside, you convulse while this happens. Inside, the last dregs of your soul flee, but the leash hunts them down, relentless on the scent.

Then Dante lunges back to your side and bites his wrist and shoves it against your clenched teeth. Only drops of his blood get into your mouth... but those are enough, just. The armoring ceases, though this time it's claimed the whole lower half of your body and most of your left arm. The erosion of your soul stops, though there's barely anything of you left. You sag, exhausted again by the convulsions, and cursing yourself for your folly. Betrayer. Thief. Did you think your body was still your own to bestow where you wished? Only a foolish dog keeps lunging against a choke chain and expecting it never to tighten. Especially when its master's hand is as close as the heart in one's chest.

Do you feel me, then, looking through your eye at your brother? Your beautiful brother, whose blood is so delicious. He's even more like Sparda than you. Will you share him with me again, Vergil? If I give you more pain, will he feed us more of himself?

Childish of you to shut the eye. Like pulling up the covers and hoping the monster you saw in the closet will just go away.

Now, slowly and with more difficulty than you had at the ancient forest cave, you sit up. And now there is pity in Dante's gaze, as he sees you struggle against the pain of the leash. How ugly you are, compared to him. You make yourself speak. "I'm going back to the demon world," you say.

(Are you, now? We will prepare a fine welcome for you, my wayward servant.)

"No," Dante says.

You shake your head. "He knows about you, now. Every moment that I stay endangers you further -- "

"Then let's fucking kill him already!"

How amusing; he has the family arrogance. You fix him with a glare through your remaining eye, which is already a featureless blood-red orb devoid of pupil or white. When it begins to glow, it will no longer be just your eye. "No."

He's practically glowing himself, magnificent in his fury. "What the hell do you mean, 'no' -- " But he stops as you reach out with a hand that is more metal than flesh to grip his forearm.

"My son," you say.

And he subsides.

You labor to your feet. Human clothing is useless to you now, so you pull your freshly-washed cloak from the basket of unfolded laundry nearby and put it on, with effort. Everything hurts. You're so tired. The leash sucks the very life from you to build the armor. The pleasure you felt only a few moments ago is like a distant memory already.

And yet.

"Nero still needs care," you say. The shame of failing to make your child self-sufficient is just another torment among many. "Only another year or two -- "

"Don't be fucking stupid," Dante says. He has bowed his head now, speaking through the curtain of his hair. "He's family. I got him. Long as he needs me."

Gratitude makes the tattered remnants of your human soul ache. You turn and lumber toward the door of Devil May Cry.

"No goodbyes, huh? Not even to the kid?"

You haven't the strength to spare for stating the obvious. You're on the brink of turning and must get as far from this place as possible. Nero's gotten the best of you, and you gave it to him for as long as you could. He's a wise child; he'll understand -- later if not now. 

Still, you stop at the threshold, with your hand on the doorknob. "When we meet again," you grate out, "we'll be enemies. I doubt I'll even know you. He will make me stronger, too, as befits his instrument. That's all I'll be, Dante. His."

(Yes. You know exactly what I'm going to do to you. Anticipation is delicious torment, isn't it? Such sweet dread in you.)

You hear him take and let out a careful, slow breath, which nevertheless reverberates with anguish and fury. "I'll do what I must."

Very good. You hesitate a moment more. "Give him Rebellion," you say, finally. "You'll need Force Edge. And also -- "

It hurts even to reach into etherspace, but you must. Through the years of torment, despite my demands, you did not give this up. How? Ah, clever boy; I see now. You made yourself forget where it was until the sight of Dante's amulet awakened the knowledge again in your mind. And since -- soon -- your mind will not be your own, you decide to do this now. Your own half of the amulet appears in your hand. You toss it toward Dante. It doesn't reach him and skitters the rest of the way across the floor, but he scoops it up, then stares at you. It's a wordless refutation of what you've already said -- that you can't fight back, that it's pointless for Dante to try, that you are doomed. Dante's going to try. And you? Something has changed. You have resolved to survive. To keep something of yourself intact, no matter what, so that one day you might hold your son again... and keep the promise you made to love Dante, as well.

How fascinating! Just yesterday you were waiting to die. Now, one day with him, one moment in this man's arms, and your courage returns. I must be certain to try him for myself, when he falls to me, as he surely must. I will enjoy breaking him to my will, as I did you.

But suddenly, you... _smile_. 

_He has merely reminded me of who I am,_ you reply, with a boundless arrogance that I have not heard from you since the early days. _And that you've never fought me at full strength, or without this leash around my heart. So do your worst... master. _Oh, such hate in that word! _But you'd best do it quickly_.

Because your brother means to come for me? Oh, this is delightful, sweet Vergil. Your defiance is --

_No. Because he knows, now, that the only way to set me free is to defeat you._ Your smile widens. You feel such vicious, vicarious pleasure in this moment that the leash reacts, although... You barely seem to notice its lash. Hmm. Perhaps I need to strengthen its pain-spells. No matter.

Well, then, my dark knight. Come back to me, and we shall see what defiance you have left when I'm done flaying your mind. We shall see what happens when I make your brother go through _you_ to get to me. We shall see how your son --

Stop. Smiling.

You nod to Dante. He nods back, jaw set and tight. 

And then you follow your leash home, my black angel, to me and to whatever fate awaits us both.

**Author's Note:**

> In my head, I heard all of this in Mundus' awful voice. (Shudder.) Yes, as the second person implies, he's able to read Vergil's mind, and is voyeuristically observing (and narrating) all of this. Title comes from "The Room of the Fallen Ones," which is that gross place full of statues and blood that Vergil fell into in the coda to DMC3, and where Mundus ostensibly defeated him and broke the Yamato.
> 
> This is very tangential fulfillment of an anon prompt: "I just want some territorial protective demon dad Virgil :D" I suspect Nonny wanted something warmfuzzier, and I may yet do a warmfuzzy story with kid Nero and Papa Bear Vergil, but I was craving something more poignant and painful this time. Also, I cried repeatedly writing this, so I hope you're all happy. (Sighs and puts icepack on eyes.)
> 
> No Nero/Vergil or Nero/Dante in this continuity, tho, sorry. It squicks me out when the older partner has actually had a real parental role.


End file.
